


you put your walls up but we walk right through

by MistyMoon



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, mentions of physical abuse, this Could be interpreted as a ronan/gansey and then eventually a ronan/gansey/adam if u wanted to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 02:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyMoon/pseuds/MistyMoon
Summary: Ronan Lynch thought he did not deserve many things, but he held them in his hands and called themhis, and he would never let them go.





	you put your walls up but we walk right through

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone's interested: section 1 (ronan did not deserve love) was written while listening to scars to your beautiful by alessa cara; section 2 (ronan did not deserve adam) was kill our way to heaven by michi and swedish garden by brice davoli; section 3 (ronan did not deserve happiness) was you are enough by sleeping at last
> 
> part of the series "apollo gave me 50 braincells and the moment i stopped writing i lost all of them and forgot how or why i wrote any of this and what any of it means", often shortened to "what the Fuck did i just write"
> 
> absolutely not proof read

Ronan Lynch did not deserve love.

He was a bomb waiting to explode, a spear waiting to be used. His mind could kill, _had tried_ to kill, and he couldn’t stop it. He was unpredictable, rough around the edges, a weapon ready to strike, and it showed. Others were wary of him, always standing far away so as not to be in his area of attack, showing respect but never closure. He didn’t know if they feared him or hated him. Both, possibly; he didn’t lack reasons for either of the answers. He was not easy to like, easy to talk to, easy to befriend. He was less a castle surrounded by tall walls and more a military base with armed soldiers expecting the worse.

The soldiers did not expect Gansey.

Gansey was not afraid; he charmed his way into Ronan’s life and decided to stay there. That was the thing about him: Gansey was raised a king. He did whatever his mind wanted to, could get anything he wished for. Where others asked, he demanded.

He wished for Ronan.

Ronan didn’t know what to think of Gansey. He was told about his quest for a dead king, a far more powerful king, and every detail seemed like a dream or an acid trip; the leylines, the stories, Gansey’s death. _You will live because of Glendower._

It was a quest made for mad men and Gansey had completely lost his mind. Glendower wasn’t a wish, a hope, a dream, it was a _need_. He ached for it, trembling fingers ghosting over the pages in his journal, restlessly circling places in a map, thousands of thoughts running through his mind at every second.

They made their way through Henrietta, marking every step, uncovering questions that no one could answer. And when Henrietta would no longer give them what they wished for, they ventured out, city names blurred in Ronan’s mind but sharp in Gansey’s tongue. They found answers, found more questions, more secrets to unveil.

Ronan felt like a king in Gansey’s kingdom.

They were temporarily bound by useless latin classes and someone long dead, and someday that would all go away and they would go their separate ways, but Ronan wanted more. He had dreamed a future filled with Gansey; his complicated and unknown words, his downright absurd 3am ideas, his controlled voice, his shit-eating grin, his laughter, his _everything._ Ronan saw himself growing old with the absolute chaos that was Richard Gansey III, but he couldn’t, shouldn’t. Gansey was destined for greatness, a born ruler, and Ronan was meant to dream his life away, the legacy his father left. Their lines intersected but didn’t combine into one.

Whenever he was forced to try and comprehend the nature of his and Gansey’s relationship, he struggled. He had trusted Gansey with his past, his secrets, his _dreams_ , and in turn Gansey had given him his fears, his most desperate thoughts, a raw version of him that Ronan could never imagine existed. And yet, it didn’t make any sense. He could surely find someone else, someone more worthy, someone that wasn’t Ronan. Gansey decided to keep him close, decided to share all of his doubts and dreams, decided to show him the Gansey that existed outside of Aglionby, away from the public eye, and he did it for reasons Ronan had yet to understand.

But when Gansey _chose_ to give him a place in the industrial block of nothing and everything that he called home, when he _chose_ to walk through the corridors of Aglionby by his side, when he _chose_ to spend countless days and nights with him, when he _chose_ to put his own king aside to look for him, and ended up carrying him in tears to the hospital, when he _chose_ to stay even when he could dream something that could kill him, when he _chose_ to endure his recklessness and his thick skull and his terrible taste in music, that’s when Ronan understood.

Gansey loved him.

Ronan was not someone with connections Gansey could use, someone with knowledge that could help him. He was someone Gansey had chosen to keep close, because he cared for Ronan, wanted to keep him as a friend and not an asset, because he _loved_ him. Someone had dared to trail a path alongside him and decided - _chosen_ \- to stay.

He and Gansey were kings in a kingdom they had created for themselves.

They were inseparable, a powerful duo with hopes and chaos on their minds. They had a friendship formed by odd circumstances and Ronan had each and every second of it etched in his memory. He and Gansey complemented each other like two puzzle pieces from two wildly different puzzle sets, that seemed to fit together by pure chance. Gansey was calculated steps and wind blowing in the right direction, and Ronan was ignored speed limits and oil spills set on fire, but they worked together in complete harmony. They were friends, they were brothers, they were _family._

Ronan loved him too.

 

Ronan Lynch did not deserve Adam.

He didn’t deserve _any_ Adam, much less Adam Parrish. They were polar opposites; Adam, with his pristine grades and hopeful goals, and Ronan, with his nonexistent school attendance and an empty future. Adam was meant for _something_ , and Ronan was meant for _something,_ but they were different _somethings._ Adam’s was the something reserved for royalty, and Ronan’s was something else, something unimportant. Adam was the kind words everyone wanted to hear, and Ronan was the sharp knives they hid away.

Adam was a dream and Ronan was a nightmare.

Adam was unfamiliar territory, someone outside Aglionby’s usual bubble of rich, full of themselves boys, and Ronan was intrigued. Someone with walls as high as the ones he had, someone who wore his heart on his sleeve. Someone who wasn’t afraid of him, someone who could look him in the eye without the fear of being hurt.

There was a burning desire in Adam’s eyes, a hopeful wish for _more._ Less school work, less college applications, less hours working, and more car rides, more tarot readings, more adventures, more magic, more of feeling alive.

Both of them had wanted the same thing: to feel alive.

 _To feel awake when my eyes are open_.

They were friends first; sharing small pieces of who they were, simple “I like sunflowers” and “I fucking hate gnomes” and “Country music isn’t _that_ bad” and the unbearable, terrible sound of “Squash one, squash two-”. Quiet nights spent together at Monmouth Manufacturing, lunch breaks filled with casual banter, both of them already too familiar with each other’s voices. Soon, it was secrets said too quietly for anyone to hear, “I _dreamt_ this” and “I hate that you can get anything you want” and “I think I like guys”. Then it was late night confessions, truths that stung anyone who heard them. It was “The bruises are because of my father” and “I have nightmares that can kill me” and “Sometimes I go to sleep wishing not to wake up”.

Ronan would still keep some things to himself, though, and Adam was his biggest secret. A wishful desire that he would never have, a dream so sweet it seemed fake. Adam was a truth he couldn’t deny, but Ronan was a born liar. No, he didn’t try to help Adam when Aglionby got more expensive, he’d say. He didn’t dream him something for his hands. He didn’t think of him as anything but a friend.

No, he wasn’t in love with Adam Parrish.

He was a secret that Ronan would have taken to his grave, something he wasn’t allowed to have. Adam’s hands were meant to hold someone else, lips meant to touch someone else’s, voice meant to speak someone else’s name.

He wasn’t in love with Adam Parrish.

He didn’t think of Adam’s hands, fingers tracing the tattoo on his back. He didn’t think of Adam’s jaw, what it’d be like to hold it, to touch it, to _feel_ it. He didn’t think of Adam’s lips, chapped and rough, touching his, kissing him. He didn’t think of Adam at all.

He was _not_ in love with Adam Parrish.

The too many seconds staring at Adam, taking in the sight of his freckled skin and the stubble on his chin that he forgot to shave, and the hours they spent together, Greywaren and Magician, started to add up. The electric feeling Ronan got whenever their hands brushed against each other, the calm that Adam’s voice brought him, the relief that came whenever he saw Adam’s face. It was when they kissed, hearts going over the speed limit and hands mapping out each and every inch of visible skin, that Ronan let go of his fears and set himself free.

And when Adam kissed him back, rough hands tugging at his shirt and soft touches on his neck, when he looked into Ronan’s eyes, into Ronan’s _soul,_ eyes filled with burning fire, when he held Ronan’s hand, openly, in the Aglionby halls, when they both laid in Ronan’s bed at the Barns and Adam took his hands and kissed them, when he gave Ronan a copy of his apartment key, when they were at one of Gansey’s family’s parties and he kissed Ronan in plain sight, not bothered by the hundreds of eyes set on them, when he borrowed Ronan one of his shirts and told him to keep it, when he held Ronan’s face in his hands and cried and told him words neither of them would ever forget, that’s when Ronan understood.

Adam Parrish was in love with him.

They existed like an orchestra, in complete synchrony, aligning their own tempos. Two free spirits who chose to converge at the same point, chose to rely on each other, chose to _be_ with each other. They were fire and water, night and day, and yet they fit together like old lovers yearning for each other.

In a hot, midsummer morning, with his fingers lost in Adam’s hair and mind filled with thoughts he would never dare to speak out loud, he took a moment to look at Adam’s eyes, that shined like sea colored stars, and then he knew.

He was in love with Adam Parrish.

 

Ronan Lynch did not deserve happiness.

His existence was a difficult one; the son of a dreamer and a dream itself, the brother of a dream and a double sided knife, the dreamer who wished to stay awake. He was not a king nor a magician; he was a liar, a thief, the Greywaren. The spitting image of his father's legacy. His worth lay in his own mind, spending countless sunlit mornings waiting to be rediscovered.

He had made his brother, Cabeswater, and hundreds of other objects that held little to no meaning. And yet, it wasn’t enough. He was trying to fill an empty inside of him that ran too deep, that no dream could fill. It was an inability to feel loved, to feel wanted, to _feel._ He belonged to the depths of his imagination, running away from his own self. He wasn’t meant for a life spent awake; he had money, had power, yet he was unknown. He existed, but where? He was important, but how? He was his own damn person, but who?

Who was Ronan Lynch?

No one, he’d answer.

Many nights he had spent lying awake, eyes closed, praying for his nightmares to take him away. Death was a symphony he had bought tickets to hear. It was a dream, so distant yet so close that he held it every night in his hands. The temptation to do something, but knowing he wouldn’t be able to take it back.

He was blinded by his past, only finding some form of solace in the bottom of beer bottles and adrenaline running through his veins. Glendower had given him purpose, but it wasn’t enough. It was a temporary feeling that would soon wash away, something that would eventually end. It wasn’t enough.

Kavinsky had changed that. Ever since his showdown on the fourth of July, ever since he was forced to face his nightmare, face _himself,_ Ronan had changed. He had felt fear lodged in his throat, despair deep in his bones, and it terrified him. It was every nightmare coming true, every horror becoming real. It opened his mind, made him _think,_ and he suddenly understood many things.

Gansey loved him. He had given Ronan truth. Something he never thought he’d need, but Gansey knows him, would know him blind, knows what he needs to hear. _You are enough_ is what he gave him, a truth Ronan would never have believed if it came from himself, a truth that shook the ground beneath his feet and made him fall to his knees, a truth that held him by the shoulders and told him _You are wrong._

Adam loved him. He had given wings to Ronan’s wildest fantasies; to come home and be greeted by the person - the _man_ \- he loved, to have hopes for a future he never thought he would get to have, _to feel awake when his eyes are open._ Adam was the gentle hand that helped him come back down, that said _You are alive._

Ronan didn’t hate him. He was afraid before, having power he didn’t want, didn’t know how to control. He had indulged in things that helped him ignore the problem, not solve it, because he was faced with the unknown reality of who he was and it was unfamiliar territory, and he was afraid. Afraid of what it was, of what it meant, of what it could do to others, of _himself._ It would be easier to burn that bridge when he got to it, and then find another way, but he soon found out that that bridge didn’t burn; it was his only way out.

Kavinsky taught him how to manipulate it, how to make it do what he wanted. Instead, Ronan crossed it.

He was a king in a kingdom he had dreamt from love.

Ronan Lynch was a dreamer, the Greywaren, a man whose power ran deep in the family. The son of a dreamer and a dream vivid in his own memory. He belonged in the small city of Henrietta, existing in two worlds so different yet so similar, but that would never join. He was the worn out leather bands on his wrists, the living tattoo on his back, the icy blue eyes, so sharp it could cut. He was the laughter shared in Gansey’s home, _their_ home, he was the green fields in the Barns, the soft, careful touches he exchanged with Adam, the sound of the Pig’s engine coming to life, the loud _Kerah!_ Chainsaw greeted him with.

He was the dreams that would never leave him, the touches and kisses he would never take back, the truths he had spoken, the people he had met, the people he _loved._

And that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> can i get ronan's happiness. can i PLEASE get ronan's happiness
> 
> also i find it very funny that i refer to ronan/gansey as brothers and family and then i compared them both to patroclus and achilles. like yes that makes complete sense. fucking idiot.
> 
> tumblr: @mlnseoks  
> twitter: @eliottdmrys


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